


Floret Silva Nobilis

by goldandbeloved



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Falling In Love, Hunting, M/M, Male Homosexuality, Male Slash, Romance, True Love, medieval glamour, secret sansa, secret sansa 2017
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-24
Updated: 2018-01-24
Packaged: 2019-03-08 21:05:21
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,434
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13466523
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/goldandbeloved/pseuds/goldandbeloved
Summary: I've never written Renly/Loras before, but I'm glad I got the chance since it was requested by my giftee.(since I primarily do kinky Lannisters any mistakes are all mine.)This was written for the 2017 Secret Sansa exchange for Madra-Nycteris, hope you enjoy it too.





	Floret Silva Nobilis

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Madra-Nycteris](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=Madra-Nycteris).



I.Among the Trees

Renly has never loved hunting.

It's Robert's, like everything is.  
During holidays, when the brothers still saw each other, they'd go into the Kingswood, all the pages and squires of the court, carrying meat pies, vats of wine, sweetsleep if His Grace needs a nap in a pavilion, a whole bloated, rude procession with Robert Baratheon bleating about his prowess till they have to be quiet so as not to startle the game.

Robert would sing “Making The Eight” in a splattering, scratched, blurting voice. The king would grab at the squires, laughing when he knocked them into the mud, then watching the boys come up with dirty faces, their eyes white and full as hard-cooked eggs.  
Robert guffawed, slapping his heavy thigh, looking down at them from his steed.

“Just like your king did to Rhaegar!” The woods would ring with Robert's laughter and as always, the pages dip their heads like whelps, sadder eyed than the hounds.  
“Take a joke, you shits.” The King of the Seven Kingdoms would belch.

A royal hunt was the one time Renly would look up to catch Stannis' dour eye and they'd share something like sympathy. There's nothing any of them can do then or now. Renly's the only one who saw Stannis' almost imperceptible shudder as Robert drools wine into his own beard, slides on his high saddle.

At least, Robert isn't shrieking that Stannis' face is as sour as a whore's asshole or calling Renly a fluffy fawn. That will come after another wineskin.  
Everyone laughs.

Stannis doesn't come to King's Landing anymore.

Renly feels a strange pang.

For that moment, he and Stannis really felt like brothers.

Stannis stays at Dragonstone and now it's only Renly to get up early, wait for Robert to piss behind oak trees, make sure the pheasants get released so the king will catch something and return to the keep, grit his teeth while the king ranks Baelish's girls on their tightness in all holes.  
The king will eventually slap Renly on the back, say he must be a virgin.  
Renly doesn't blame the pages for laughing.

Renly wants to go home.

Leaves and bracken and ivy and twigs make him feel exhausted and tired and he can't smell the green of the forest without thinking of the smell of stale wine. That's hunting, that's the wood.

He never thought he'd love the color green again.

 

 

II.Flowering

 

When Loras came to court, Renly noticed his laugh—or lack. Loras' laugh is gentle, soft, something tender that comes close, out of the brush to respond to an outstretched hand. You need patience to hear it, you might miss it.

Renly waits for it. He listens, stroking the edges of his dark beard, watching the candlelight play in Loras' golden curls at the feast. Loras' laugh is so quiet in this court of brashness, it's loveliness itself. It's all the lovelier for being around the muck of jokes about whores, mouths, joints of greasy mutton that are scorched around the edges since the king likes them that way so everyone must.

Renly watches Loras. Loras will smile when there's something from Highgarden, white-fleshed fish sauced with grapes, wine and cream. Loras doesn't care that men aren't supposed to like sweets, but he'll enjoy peaches drizzled with Tyroshi brandy and almonds, delicate but strong.  
Renly's had bites and it's made his head spin; the brandy will sneak up on you, the way Loras does in a tourney, beautiful, but with a sharp edge unseen til it's too late and your head spins.

Before Renly sleeps, his eyes spin coins of green and gold in the dark. All he can think of is Loras, wonder what it would be like to lie beside him, to nuzzle the back of his neck, kiss him till he hears another sound, something tender and lovely like laughter, but only for Renly.

At night he dreams, wakes at the wolf's hour to hear the Kingsguards' footsteps as they change places with their now tired sworn brothers at the king's door.

Renly listens for the gentle, firm tread of Highgarden's champion, wishing there was a reason for him to walk to this end of the Red Keep.

 

His dreams are all of antlers and rose-vines.

 

III. Silva Nobilis

When the summons comes, Renly tries to find something to do but the Master of Coin is away, the Maester is indisposed and there's nothing to be done for it, but to go over to the Kingswood. Varys was insistent that his presence was desired, then glided silently along the hall in his velvet slippers.

Varys never has to go hunting.

And Renly's out in the Kingswood. Waiting.

The King's late and Renly has the sinking feeling that Robert wants to be friendly again, two brothers off goring and gutting things while Robert feigns interest in Renly's duties, then gets bored and srarts telling brothel stories. Renly doesn't want to hear about tits, the Mereneese twins and the bananas or worse, when Robert looks at him solemnly with someting like pity in his eyes.

“ You shouldn't be alone, Renly. What's wrong with these girls?”

 

He'll look sad for a moment, then he'll be slapping Renly on the back and offering a visit to the Peach to rid Renly of his maidenhead. Robert's kindness exhausts Renly now, makes him feel worse.

He wishes he had the patience Eddard Stark had, but he doesn't. (Renly remembers Eddard's eyes, the way he softens when Robert talks about how they fought back-to-back, unbroken friends, the way Eddard looks at him. Reflected in Eddard's eyes, Renly can see Robert as brave, burly, strong—perhaps kind. But Eddard hasn't been here for too long and Robert's kindness fled long ago.)

 

Renly idly pats his horse, mentally promising him a bag of oats and himself pear brandy if they survive this afternoon. After sometime, he dismounts, sitting on a fallen log, bored, aggravated.

Then, a sound. Quiet rustling, then hooves--

and the branches part like in a song.

It's like watching the sun come out.

Radiant.

It can't be but it is. Loras is there on his white palfrey mare, gleaming in hunting greens, graceful as a lily, fierce as a thorned rose. His cloak is deep evergreen with traceries of golden vines at the edge and hood, his doublet in a brocade with swirls of blossoms and leaves on jade and cream,

Loras shakes a leaf from his hair and golden curls tumble around his shoulders.

Then, the Knight of the Flowers blushes like a shy maiden.

“Renly Baratheon. “

This is the book of Renly's life opening. He's in the Kingswood and at the same time he's watching the bitter ink of his days being overwritten in rosewater and honey. His eyes close so he can't see if this is a joke or a disappointment, one of Robert's stupid, tiresome japes.

But there’s no scent of sweat and soured posset, only a fougere of wild roses, sweetgrass and oudh carried on the breeze.

Loras leans down, reaching out one hand in an embroidered glove. Renly can barely breathe, they are supposed to be all fury, but Renly was made for something else, his brothers can tell and perhaps Loras can too.

“Do you hunt, Renly Baratheon?”

 

The leather on his cheek is gentle, firm, sweet like a sunbeam, but just as strong.

Renly remembers that the sun undoes men in stranger ways than storms, overcoming them with warmth and beauty. The sun doesn't beat or shame the flowers into submission but they want to reach him because they want to be close to that light, to blossom.

Renly smiles, free and joyous.

“ I could. Loras Tyrell.”

Loras' smile is everything that Renly has ever wished for. And when his fingers touch those of the third son of Mace Tyrell, everything falls into place, Loras leaning down so his hair brushes Renly's cheek, it is a song, the sweetest in all the world.

And when their lips finally meet there in the Kingswood, it is like all the trees are afire with blooms. When they're pressed against each other and their tongues taste of honey and sweat—this is what a flower feels as it opens to the sun.  
Lying in the glade, all is peace and joy, the centre of a perfect golden rose, cradled safe by green; all is glorious and their hearts are full of love just as a morning bloom holds dew.  
Listening as his lover sighs, in the golden afternoon Renly could love hunting after all.


End file.
